Green Bird
by AmeNeko
Summary: The deadly Black Death left chaos in its wake, leaving every country it touched in tatters. This, of course, included Italy.


**Hello, AmeNeko here, and it is good to be back. I'm sorry about the amount of inactivity. I wrote a few things to make up for it, and this is one of them.**

**This is actually based off of a dream I had a year ago, so if some bits don't make a whole lot of sense, sorry. There's a reason for that…Dreams don't make sense, but I did my best to interpret things.**

**I also titled this after the Cowboy Bebop OST by the same name (before I knew the translations…However, the translations seem to lean more towards simply reciting the acts of daily, simple life…We'll just call it irony).**

**I can't really say much else without spoiling the story, so let's just dive right in.**

**oOo**

**rated T for; violence, dark themes, language**

**pairings; none**

**Disclaimer; I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers. I only own this story.**

oOo

Green Bird

A Hetalia Axis Powers oneshot

oOo

A cold breeze blasted through the small Italian town. The tight cluster of houses, stands, and rough roads were deathly quiet. Few people walked outside, and those who did were gaunt and thin, eyes wide and glancing around nervously. They were afraid of the tiny, invisible danger that had wrapped around Europe like a hangman's noose. It was known by only one name; the Black Death!

The very name would make them shudder, the hair sharply prickling at the back of their necks. The disease appeared from seemingly nowhere, as if it spilled out from a leak in hell's fortress. It was the Devil's curse on God's people, some cried. No, no, others refuted, tis the work of God Himself, destroying us for our worthless prayers and endless sins! Yet more blamed others for their suffering, and bloody prosecutions began at an alarming rate.

The victims of this horrible outbreak, this plague, sickly, dying, and utterly helpless as these accusations cut through the air fierce and swift like knives. The struck their targets at random, causing profuse bleeding out of their own wild theories.

Anyone who befell to the preying beast called Black Death was destined to die. Boils exploded violently, blood ran thick and fast. Death just wasn't swift enough to end their misery, yet Life was not long enough to make any difference. Delirium set in all too soon, tormenting the already agonized person with false specters. Consumed with horrors beyond anyone else's comprehension, they died in a state of woe.

Every part of Europe was at the mercy of the Black Death's cruel clutches, and Italy was no exception.

A small figure hid in the shadows of an abandoned pile of empty crates, wrapped in ragged, common clothes. His auburn hair was ruffled and dirty, a singular curl weakly sticking out on his left side. His amber eyes surveying the desolate scene before him were half closed, almost lethargic. He looked barely sixteen, yet he already wore the expression of a battered old man.

This boy went by two names; to common, everyday folk, he was Feliciano Vargas. To those who knew the truth, however, he went by Veneziano Italy.

Truth be told, Veneziano was not ordinary in the slightest. From the day he took his first breath, he was a "nation"; the personification of a country, its bearer of the citizen-induced pain and woe. It didn't matter if he didn't want to carry the burdens of nameless persons taking residence in his fair motherland. He simply "had to", so when the inhabitants of Italy shook the country to its roots, Veneziano could only shudder as if they were shaking his very body.

No one took much notice of the small figure hiding in the gloom. He blended in well, with the day's clouds blocking most of the light, and his dreary clothes matching his dreary surroundings. Those who did take notice thought he was just some unfortunate kid who would pounce upon them, begging for anything they didn't need, be it food, money, or clothing. Of course, Veneziano was a nation, he would never ask for anything out of his right from his own people (but how were they supposed to know that?).

The auburn haired nation didn't seem to mind being ignored, however. He just watched his people with heavy-lidded eyes. At first glance, it was difficult to know, but the truth was that Veneziano's entire body was aching, as he was covered with sores. Various gashes had been cleaved into his skin, causing him great pain.

At first, it had been excruciating, and Veneziano had writhed on the ground every night, unable to sleep due to the throes jolting throughout his body each day and night. He grew accustomed to it over time, however, and now it was nothing more than a dull throbbing that interrupted his few moments of peace. Such was the life of a country; you had no choice of whether or not to live or die. You could only do as you must, for your people, not yourself.

However, Veneziano couldn't do much about the invisible horror from down below that was cutting down the people of Europe. He desperately prayed to God to bring salvation upon them, to light their way to find a solution, but to no avail. The auburn nation wanted to see if there was anything he could do at all, anything, so he found himself floundering from one Italian town to the next, looking for an answer or sign. There had to be a way to stop the all-consuming grief and pain.

Every possible answer he thought of lacked any timely method of accomplishing. Veneziano could really do nothing at all, and despite his attempts to keep trying, to keep looking, he ended up falling to the hopelessness of it all anyway. Thus, he watched his people with slight disinterest as he thought back to his fellow nations. What about Spain and Austria? Were they also looking for an answer? Were they fading into hollow demeanors and were reluctant to try harder for their people? Or had they already found the cure? If they had, Veneziano couldn't help but envy such success where he had failed.

Normally, the auburn-haired nation was optimistic, but three years of suffering for ingrates had beaten some of it out of him. He did his best to hope and believe for an end, for his people's sake. He hoped that whatever monster was tormenting so many would leave him and everyone else alone. Musing that thought helped keep Veneziano going.

"Hey, you."

Someone was talking to him. Veneziano turned to the direction, his left, the voice was coming from. The speaker was a local village boy, who stood a few feet away. He looked about twelve, give or take, and he was just as poor looking and haggard as the auburn haired nation, maybe more. His expression conveyed concerns, eyebrows curved down, mouth a thin, firm line.

Interested in what he wanted, Veneziano stood, and without hesitation, walked over to him. It wasn't like he was engaged in other matters, and as a nation, it was his unspoken duty to answer to the demands of his people, big or small.

So, he approached, stopping a few steps away. The auburn haired nation studied the young boy, and from a closer look, he could see faint scrapes on the younger's face. Was he beaten, bullied, or did he fall? Veneziano wondered this to himself, concerned about the stranger who had summoned him.

This stranger seemed to notice the way Veneziano was eyeing the scratches on his face, and thus rubbed them half-heartedly, as if they were mud, that could be removed with a well-placed scrub. Scratches, however, were not as simple to get rid of.

"Who're you? 'I haven't seen you 'round here b'fore." The boy uttered gruffly, his accent revealing his rough lifestyle to Veneziano. He closed an eye, as if trying to get a better look at the auburn haired nation.

The said nation was used to this sort of scrutiny. Lately, he hadn't stayed in one town for very long while the Black Death brewed up trouble far and wide. His aimless wanderings raised the eyebrows of tightknit communities, so he had developed a reflex to respond to such questions.

"Feliciano Vargas. I'm just passing through, I won't stay long, promise!"

The stranger's frown broadened, and for a moment, Veneziano worried he would be assaulted with more questions. Luckily, the boy's expression reformed into a wry grin.

"Well…Nice t' meet ya. I'm Benvolio."

Benvolio did not seem hostile, although dirty and poor in exchange, although, that was common as of late. Relieved, Veneziano opened his mouth to speak, but the boy jerked his head behind him before turning around and walking briskly away. The auburn haired nation hushed and hurried to join him. The pair walked side-by-side.

At first, they walked in awkward silence. Veneziano hated silence that could be filled with conversation. To cut into the lull, he spoke first.

"You live in this town, right?"

"Yeah, with my family. This town's pretty small, so getting' 'round here doesn't take much time. I know every face in this town, y'know."

"So that's how you singled me out like that."

A swift nod was used to communicate agreement. Benvolio's eyes were locked on the ground at his feet, now, as if he was intently watching for any debris in his path. But Veneziano knew better; he knew the younger must be thinking deeply about something troubling him.

"…I guess that makes this hard for you, huh…" Veneziano mumbled, cautiously, minding his tone, lest it wander from being quiet and sad.

Benvolio just nodded again. He was now glaring at the ground, as if he blamed it for the problems he had. But his eyes were also flickering uncertainly, like a pond after you throw a pebble into it. It seemed the young boy was in fact fighting away tears threatening to spill out.

Veneziano wanted to offer comfort to him, somehow, yet he knew that it was for the best that he not do or say anything of the sort. Even though the nation was always willing to offer up affection to others when they were feeling dow, Benvolio would most likely not appreciate such gestures from a complete stranger, after all. No one did, lately.

The pair, as a result, continued to walk, enveloped in complete silence, a silence only broken by their footfalls.

The thick quiet that cloaked the two seemed to last for hours. Veneziano willed himself to gather the courage to speak to his companion, to shatter the silence like glass once more, but the words would not come. He, the one known for being able to say anything by other nations, was at a complete and total loss of what to say. It was jarring, to say the least.

So when Benvolio finally spoke, a break in their conversation's hiatus, the auburn haired nation was flooded with sheer relief.

"You're right, y'know. It is hard for me. I knew lots of people who died because of—because of whatever the hell it's supposed t' be. I know even more who haven't died yet, but they're gonna, 'cause all they do it lie around in their beds, the floors, whatever, jus' moanin' and cryin'. They can't do anythin' anymore, 'cause they're too sick. It's real awful, t' hear, and t' see…"

The relief faded. Veneziano's eyebrows tilted downwards, furrowing into a concerned expression. He, too, looked to the ground.

"I'm...really sorry…" was all the auburn-haired nation could say. What could you say, to someone so young, so sad, who had suffered so much in a short span of time? What do you say when you've lived longer, been through so much worse, and yet feel as if your suffering amounted to nothing in comparison? Your immortality made a barrier of eternal suffering, yet his mortal life left him afraid of death. What kind of comparison was that?

"Damn straight. Who the hell d'ya know that died?! Did your parents die; did your friends die, or what?! Why the hell else are you just wanderin' 'round, anyway?!" Benvolio suddenly snapped, and Veneziano jumped out of his train of thought at the snarl directed at him.

"Are you one of those damn Devils in human flesh?! Cursin' people for no other reason than your spite?! Or are ya just some freak, some kid who doesn't have to be rooted to the sufferin' of others?!"

To think that it had taken such a short amount of time for the young boy to lose himself along with everyone in the loathing and blame. But this was the deadly scar that pained those who sat through these ordeals and lived. The Black Death had no real cause, no real person at fault, so people jumped on others, accusing them of starting the misery. These censures only caused even more death and sorrow. This never ending cycle of loss, blaming, and persecution was what rolled viciously in the hell water of Europe.

Benvolio's gaze slowly slid from the ground to Veneziano, eyes boiling over with that awful, bitter, mindless hate that drove death without reason into the innocent. The fact it was inside someone so young, so weak, it terrified Veneziano so much he couldn't run.

The younger boy suddenly sprang at the auburn-haired nation, grabbing him by the collar, and slamming him violently against a nearby wall. The impact sent an explosion of pain at the back of Veneziano's head, and he felt something warm and wet well up and drip down his neck and down his face. Red swam in his vision. Blood.

"What the hell are you?! What the hell are you?! What the hell are you?!"

Benvolio accusatorily screamed this question over and over, punctuating it by slamming the auburn-haired nation against the wall. Veneziano was barely registering these outraged howls piercing the air like a spear. The shrieks combined with the hellish agony ringing in his bones with every smash against the wall were causing his consciousness to fade in and out. His eyesight, tinted with scarlet, was beginning to fade, and he could barely make out his attacker anymore…

Had the auburn-haired nation possessed clearer sight, he would have noticed that Benvolio's face, and how his eyes were streaming steadily with tears. They were created out of the massive collection of grief, fear, and frustration that was built up in every European surrounded by the Black Death. All they could hear were the pained screams of those they loved as the awful plague choked the life out of them.

Veneziano wasn't aware of the emotional crying Benvolio was doing, or the tears that were welling up in his own eyes. Was it because of his current pain? The sad pity he felt for both himself and his people, was it consuming him? Or was it neither, and was he crying because there was nothing else he could do? There really wasn't a definite answer.

It was a little silly, honestly, that no one seemed to hear the shrieking and banging now. Does no one care about the skirmishes of children, or do they all just not care about anything else other than their own problems now? Veneziano wondered off-handedly.

Benvolio's grip on Veneziano suddenly disappeared, and the auburn-haired nation slid to the ground weakly, and was suddenly aware of how hard his body was shaking, and the senseless tears in his eyes. Heavy breathing, belonging to Benvolio, was the only other sound Veneziano could detect beyond the wind, and his own shaky breathing (and beating heart). His eyesight was beginning to clear, as he blinked slowly, once, twice, thrice, and once he could see, it was easily apparent as to why Benvolio had let him go.

A cloaked figure stood behind Benvolio, face hidden by a shadowed hood, holding a large, sharp glass shard against the boy's throat. This makeshift weapon was gripped by a tense hand, a tenseness that implied that he was ready to take a slice out of Benvolio if need be. The figure's cloak was well-worn, shabby to a point where it was almost green. If you looked closely at it, there were several bits of glass caught in the cloth, as if the figure had jumped out of a glass window.

Was this Veneziano's savior? They seemed like they were intent on his protection, which he was grateful for, but why? Who were they to the auburn-haired nation, and what did they stand to gain from this action? Did they know the truth, of status of a country, or were they merely attempting a noble deed at such a dark time in history?

Whatever their purpose for their rather irregular deed, the questions were gathering up and rolling every which way inside Veneziano's brain, like storm clouds in a billowing maelstrom. It roared in his ears and the swirl of inquiries that he could practically feel churning in his mind only made him even more confused. Everything was out of focus and muted to him, and his own thoughts continued to lack any sense. Is this what happens when you hit your head too hard?

Benvolio reacted first. He flung himself sideways to avoid any deadly contact with the glass shard. He hit the filthy ground on his side, and the cloaked figure seemed to startle at the sudden movement, whirling around to face the fallen Benvolio. The tense grip on the glass was gone; the stranger's hands were shaking. It was as if the tensed readiness and calm the stranger had possessed a heartbeat ago had snapped with Benvolio's sudden movement. Had they lost sight of their next move, and were planning on improvising from here, to strike blindly and hope for the best.

Benvolio kicked up dirt as he scrabbled backwards, trying to stand, trying to flee this mysterious stranger. Benvolio's mouth moved as he screamed words of anger and fear, and if Veneziano had been able to hear it, it wouldn't have made any difference. What Benvolio was screaming was completely incomprehensible. There weren't any real words, just garbled attempts to speak, but he was too much in shock. He could not be understood by anyone, not even himself.

The stranger did not make any other aggressive moves at Benvolio, and only watched as the boy practically crawled away in escape, into a dark alley a little ways away.

For one moment, both Veneziano and the stranger did nothing at all to acknowledge the other's existence. The auburn-haired nation could not find it in him to really do anything at all to react to his apparent rescue. The cloaked figure was a stranger after all, and they were still gripping the deadly glass shard in one hand. There was no way to tell if they safe at this point.

A soft breeze whispered gently in Veneziano's ears, whispering warnings. Escape, escape with your life! it seemed to say, and he shuddered with both the sudden chill and spike of apprehension. The smooth wind also briefly uncovered the sun, allowing its rays of brilliant light to finally break through and wash over the small Italian town.

The clocked figure's cloak flapped in the sudden wind, and when they turned to face the nation they had just saved, the sunlight swathed over them as well.

The sunlight was crystallized in the shards of glass stuck to their cloak, like little golden thorns. The cloak itself rippled in the air, like waves of a river….But their face was visible, now…Their face was—

Veneziano gasped and clumsily pulled himself to his feet, trembling violently, facing this gold, Christ-like figure, who had only just saved his life a few moments ago…with that face…

The wind whispered once more, a warning, advising escape.

"Flee, coward."

So Veneziano fled, stumbling, gasping, and shivering in the sudden rush of terror that had so suddenly bubbled through his veins, screaming, giving his limbs life, ran.

_ Oh God…Oh God…Oh God_…

oOo

The cloaked figure watched listlessly as the auburn-haired nation ran from them, filled with fear as soon as the sun enveloped the town like a brief tidal wave. As the sun slid its mask of clouds back over to cover its glory, the cloaked figure swallowed and brought their hands up to their hood. With trembling fingers, they pulled it down, so that it fell loosely around their shoulders.

The face Veneziano had seen was too much for him because of one simple fact; it looked so much like his own.

Dark brown hair sported an awkward curl that thrashed weakly in the dying breeze. Harsh emerald eyes narrowed, and filled with hot, angry tears. Overwhelmed with resentment and hurt, he fell to his knees.

With that, Romano Italy, alias Lovino Vargas, and brother of Veneziano Italy, started to cry.

oOo

Running was something that came naturally to Veneziano; if he was in danger, it was just so easy to just push away any complex thoughts and emotions and focus purely on moving your legs in the opposite direction of the threat you were facing.

The auburn-haired nation wasn't paying any attention where he was going. It was like his mind and body were disconnected from each other, his thoughts shut down and his legs just moving off of their last command, to flee, and they were going to do exactly that until something stopped them altogether.

Unwittingly, Veneziano ended up running into a nearby church tower, and was staggering it up the stairs, to an array of stain glass windows at the very top. The weak light that wasn't filtered out by clouds created colorful shapes that ingrained themselves into the musty floor. Ironically, they looked over the area where he had been attacked.

The auburn-haired nation probably would've kept running if he hadn't stumbled and tripped over the last of the stairs' steps. His body and mind were violently snapped back together as he fell to the floor, sending harsh jolts of pain up his arm and leg.

For a few moments, Veneziano simply stared at the filthy ground, struggling to regain his sense of composure and control. The next few he used to scramble up to his feet, trembling do hard he had to grip a random window ledge for support.

There was no stained glass portrait in that particular window; it had been shattered, pummeled out by something with enough power behind their punch. A person could've easily clouted the glass away, for example. Most of the glass was gone at this point, but a few small pieces littered the ground, enough so that Veneziano could make out that they were relatively translucent. The "color" seemed rather familiar, like he had seen it somewhere before. Where, though, had he seen this glass?

_ A figure stood before him, bathed in sunlight, catching it in the glass shards gripping onto his cloak like drowning rats…in his hand, he possessed a large shard of the same glass, wielding it like a weapon…_

Oh! That person…his savior, who looked so much like him…They must have forced themselves through this window, jumped out to the ground below.

Curiously, with a theory forming in his mind, Veneziano peeked his head over to see what the window overlooked. It turned out, much to his satisfaction, that his guess had turned out to be an accurate one. The window overlooked the area where Benvolio had attacked him. This meant the cloaked stranger had been watching the scene unfold from that very spot, and had shattered the glass as they both obtained a weapon and leaped down to the ground.

But why, exactly? They possessed such a familiar face, yet Veneziano couldn't seem to place it correctly. If he could only remember, give the face a proper name…

A breeze started to pick up, a particularly chilly one, and Veneziano shivered at this sudden change in temperature. The Europe's weather seemed at moody as its people these days. It was lifeless one moment, and ferocious the next. In essence, a persona split down the middle.

The auburn-haired nation rested his elbows on the window ledge, his chin in his palms, and ran his eyes over the clearing. It remained completely deserted. There was hardly any evidence to prove that there had been a scuffle of any kind down below. It didn't look like anything had happened, really.

Veneziano switched his gaze to the nearby rooftops, and wondered if there were any families who were still whole and well in this time of suffering. It saddened him to think most likely not; the Black Death did not spare anyone from its touch. Every town he visited, each household seemed to accommodate at least one sickly member. Mothers, fathers, cousins, friends, sisters, brothers…

The cloaked figure was back, staring at him from the highest rooftop. Their hood was off, lumping up at the base of their neck, so their face was in plain sight.

With a squeak, Veneziano stumbled backwards in pure shock. When had…Why did….How did they even…?!

The stranger didn't give the auburn haired nation any heed, however, and jumped into the air, towards the window reaching out to grip the window ledge. As their almost-green cloak flapped in the wind, Veneziano was reminded of a bird, almost, soaring through the air, onward at its destination.

He had to take that right back, however, because the stranger fell like a rock as soon as they lost their momentum from jumping, and barely managed to grab the ledge on their way down. A loud swear word was heard.

Veneziano cautiously approached, and looked down to see the cloaked stranger eye to eye one more time. When the "stranger" looked up at him irritably, something clicked.

"Fratello?"

Romano gave his brother the most cynical expression you could give while dangling for dear life from a window ledge.

"Yes, it's me, you ass, now help me up, I'm slipping."

The auburn-haired nation reached down and grabbed his brother's hand, and pulled him up and over the ledge and into the church tower, Romano cussing under his breath the entire way.

Once he was pulled over, Romano barely got a chance to catch his breath before Veneziano took the chance to fiercely hug the older.

"Sorry…" the auburn-haired nation mumbled, squeezing his brother tighter.

Silence was the response he got for a few moments, and Veneziano dared to look his brother in the face again, and was startled to find that Romano's eyes were welling up with tears, as were his own.

They both cried.

oOo

**Me;**

**1. I asked my mom to give me an Italian name and she gave me Guido. I looked it up afterwards, and while it IS a real name, it is also a slang term for Italian-Americans who behave in a thuggish way. As funny as that would have been, it would have also been pretty offensive (shout-out to you Italian readers out there, hope I didn't insult you;;). My mom gave me another name, Benvolio, after the character from Romeo and Juliet. The name itself means roughly, "peacemaker" or "good-will", and the character of this name in Shakespeare's play does as such. My Benvolio, on the other hand, does not fulfill this role in anyway whatsoever, so I suppose it is bitter irony more than anything else.**

**2. When Benvolio meets Italy, he's all scraped up. Italy wonders if it's because he was beaten up, and when he thinks that, he's half right. You see, it serves as a bit of foreshadowing as to what happens later; Benvolio is beaten up because he picks fights with others (his age and beyond) because of how frustrated he is with his current situation. However, because of his small build, he gets hammered something awful.**

**3. I don't think Romano and Italy were very close at this point in time, as South Italy was still a Spain's territory. Italy most likely would not recognize his brother at first, but because they look so similar, he's bound to remember Romano's face just for that. Hence why he freaks out, as Italy was heavily religious at this time and seeing your face on a gold-glowing figure in a cloak that saved your life is pretty bizarre.**

**4. I think Romano would recognize Italy more easily because he's the big brother, and he shows shades of being an overprotective brother in the show. It's not too weird to think he'd save his brother out of impulsiveness, and then have no idea what to do next**

**That's all I have to say for now. I hope you enjoyed this weird experiment of mine, and I promise I'll start giving you guys more content soon! If I goofed up anywhere, please let me know!**

**Italy; Don't forget to leave a review**!


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